Harjeet’s home in Amritsar looked nothing like he remembered it. The awnings were gone. Heavy opaque wooden doors replaced the wrought iron. Greek columns framed the entryway. His father was always trying to improve on the house in some way, to recreate their former home in Rawalpindi, which had been in their family for three generations before they were forced to abandon it during Partition. After leaving it, they were never able to return or retrieve any of their belongings.

In the small back corner room, his father, Akal Singh, curled up on his side. His bony limbs peaked out of the border of the quilt. The room reeked of menthol, urine.

“Papa-ji,” Harjeet began. “It’s me. Your son, Harjeet.”

His eyelids stretched open, fixed on the ceiling. “It’s been such a long time, my son. I didn’t think I’d see you before the end.”

Harjeet sat on the edge of the bed. A pale light shone on his father’s face. His jowls hung on either side of his neck like chicken giblets. His breath was short, ragged. He’d lost weight, gained creases around his eyes. His beard was solid white.

End stage heart disease, his nurse had told Harjeet over the phone.

“I should have visited more often,” Harjeet said. “I’m sorry, Papa-ji.”

When Harjeet and Chandani married, he told her point blank he was never going to return to India. She could go by herself to see her own family in Amritsar, and both families would be welcome in their new home in the United States, but he couldn’t spend another minute on the same subcontinent that robbed him of his beloved Simran. For the most part, he had kept his promise, only returning to say goodbye to Lacchman.

“Harjeet,” his father said. “Why did you come now?”

Harjeet shifted his weight, folded his hands. “You were a good father. You took such good care of us after bhenji died. I should have taken better care of you.”

“I had help from your aunts and uncles, Harju. I never had to do it alone. But this is not the real reason you came to see me.”

Harjeet spent all of his adult life away from Papa-ji. And yet, his father could see right through him. Distance and time were inconsequential. If Harjeet had learned anything as a child, it was how to be a respectful, obedient son, how to show up for the man who raised him, no matter how much time had passed.

“Help me sit up, my son,” Papa-ji said.

He gathered his father under his arms, hoisted him higher on the bed. He fit two pillows behind his back.

“Do you know what I remember most about Simran?” his father asked, anticipating Harjeet’s question.

“No, Papa-ji.”